


It Doesn't End with Goodbye

by Psychosomatic_Rationality



Category: Spellsinger
Genre: 70s music, 80s fantasy, Action/Adventure, Affection, Affectionate Insults, Awesome, Banter, Camaraderie, Epilogue, Fantasy, Fantasy Adventure, Feels, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay Male Character, Gen, Goodbyes, Heartwarming, Implied Relationships, Magic, Magic-Users, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Music, Non-human, Post-Book 3, Post-Book(s), Talking Animals, alan dean foster, day of the dissonance, spellsinger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:11:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psychosomatic_Rationality/pseuds/Psychosomatic_Rationality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Jon-Tom's quest ends, a new adventure is only beginning for Charrok, Roseroar and Drom. It's inevitable that once a quest is over for Jon-Tom, his fellow adventurers and friends (with the exception of Mudge) move out of his life, some without even saying goodbye. This is not one of those times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Doesn't End with Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TaeAelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaeAelin/gifts).



The curved bell-leaves glimmered in the fading firelight of the evening sky. The Bellwoods bade the sun farewell by the soft tinkling of each luminescent leaf, as the evening breeze rolled and danced amongst the trees. The music of the forest reached out over the black, winding River Tailaroam, which lapped softly at its southern border.

Oars pushed firmly through the lazy whirls of the river, as a sturdy skiff cut across the current. The ember-red of sunset was almost extinguished, but the little lantern mounted on the prow cast warm candlelight on the boat's crew. A lanky young man leant against the starboard gunwale, cradling a stringed instrument in his arms. From the vivid clash of colourful clothes and the crooked, tired smile he wore, he bore the appearance of a penniless musician. 

Jon-Tom's long, clever fingers picked at the duar's two strings, the warm tones melding with the chiming bell-leaves. The spellsinger smiled at his fellow player, the mockingbird perched opposite him, whose feathers strummed the three strings of his syreed. Charrok was a spellsinger himself, and given the rarity of spellsingers, having two play together was a symphony to behold. Gneechees, glowing firefly-points of magic light spiraled and swept around the two spellsingers. Without lyrics to guide them, the gneechees settled on the river's calm surface, or disappeared in the reeds skirting the shoreline.

"Ah believe this is our stop, suh," Roseroar's deep, purring voice rumbled through the evening's music. Behind Jon-Tom, the skiff was dominated by her seven-foot-tall figure, sat cramped on the wooden seat in the middle, her armour clinking at each oar-pull of her broad white-furred arms. Bright yellow eyes shone from her stocky feline face. Roseroar had become one of Jon-Tom's latest companions by accident; the result of his hasty rendition of "Eye of the Tiger" in the hopes of escaping a tricky situation. She had spoken little of her home, but had been easily persuaded to join them, perhaps for more reasons than just the opportunity to swing her serrated swords at their foes.

The skiff pushed into the muddy northern bank of the river, reeds rustling as the evening breeze brushed over their heads. Roseroar sniffed a few times, her ears twitching back and forth, and for a moment it seemed she was about to speak. She shrugged, thinking better of it, and heaved her heavy figure with cat's grace over the side, keeping one hand on the gunwale as her hind paws hit the water with a splash. An indignant yelp sounded from the shallows.

"Oi! Nearly flattened me, you did!" A bewhiskered, brown-furred face popped up over the side of the boat, eyeing Jon-Tom with beady eyes, as if the tigress warrior was his responsibility. Jon-Tom eyed the otter back, plucking a sudden dissonant chord in mockery. A webbed finger jerked upwards at the grinning feline's face. "She's doin' it on purpose."

"Ah must confess, he slipped mah mind," Roseroar admitted, "on account of not hearing his bellyaching fo' longer than five minutes."

Jon-Tom grinned back at the tigress, and a melodious chuckle from the stern of the skiff cut off the otter's next acidic retort. The voice that accompanied it was male, yet light and lyrical. "You wound him most unjustly. Worry not, dear Mudge. _I_ did not forget you."

"Just the reassurance I bloomin' needed," Mudge groused.

Stepping one cloven hoof gingerly at a time into the shallows, Drom's elegant, golden-furred features were caught in the candlelight, a too-innocent horsey smile holding back the unicorn's mirth. He pranced a splashing circle around the unimpressed Mudge, flicking the otter with the end tuft of his tail, before trotting up the bank. He kicked out one hind leg, then the other, wincing as the circulation began to flow back into his cramped hindquarters. "So, this wood is the home of the world's greatest wizard, hm? Dear me, but there's an awful odour about it."

Mudge snorted as he fumbled about the skiff's bow stowage, pulling out his peaked cap. He straightened out the feather jauntily pinned to one side, and slapped it on his head. Next came his longbow, kept safely dry whilst the otter had been swimming. He gave the bowstring an experimental twang with one claw. "Smells like smoke 'ereabouts. Prob'ly hunters, roastin' their catch. Delicious!"

"Delicious. The burned dead flesh of another creature. I'm sure it's lovely," Drom responded queasily, his nostrils flaring. Roseroar guffawed, giving the unicorn a good-natured pat on the flank as she trudged up the embankment.

"I hope that last duet wasn't our _last_ duet, man," Charrok chirped, drawing Jon-Tom's attention from the playful bickering of his mates. "I'd hate to see your talent chained to doing a wizard's housework."

"I promise it won't be the last," Jon-Tom answered quickly, straightening up. "You know, being Clothahump's apprentice isn't that bad. Are you sure you don't even want to meet him?"

"I've met one too many wizards for my liking already, Jon-Tom," Charrok said, his laid-back tone turning serious. "Something's been bothering me this whole journey back, man."

"Oh? What's up?" Jon-Tom leaned close, casting a sideways glance at the others. Drom and Roseroar were stretching out their tired limbs and arguing back and forth about the merits of cooked meat, whilst Mudge buttoned up his leather vest and slipped wet paws into otter-sized boots.

The mockingbird seemed to mull over his words for a moment. "It's like… is it really just a _coincidence_ that the two greatest rival wizards in the world happened to both employ the _only_ two spellsingers we know of?"

Jon-Tom frowned. "I guess it is a bit strange Zancresta knew exactly where to find another spellsinger to duel me. But what does that have to do with me being Clothahump's apprentice?"

Charrok sighed, and rustled his feathers in what Jon-Tom took to be the bird shrugging. "I don't know for sure, man. Spellsinging is maybe the most powerful magic of all, something even the wizards can't do. Zancresta would have used me to kill you, and your master. And I can't help but notice, but your errand run for Clothahump left his only major rival dead."

There was an uneasy silence between the two spellsingers. Jon-Tom wanted to retort that Clothahump wouldn't have any ulterior motive for making him his apprentice… except Clothahump _had_ deceived him and his friends before. The wizard had brazenly used him and Mudge, along with their old friends Talea, Flor, Pog, and Caz to his own ends, often showing contempt at their objections and even smug delight at the power he held over them. Sure, everything had worked out alright in the end. They successfully made an alliance with the Weavers, and defeated the Plated Folk at the Jo-Troom Gate. Yet his old friends sure had been quick to rid themselves of the wizard's company after their last adventure, hadn't they? Had they learned a lesson about the wizard that Jon-Tom hadn't? He shook his head, trying to ignore that cynical voice in his head.

"Clothahump has made predictions of the future before," Jon-Tom said slowly. "I get what you're saying; they used us as pawns in their game. But Clothahump wouldn't… I don't think he planned out Zancresta's death. That's cold, even for a reptile."

"You know him, I don't," Charrok conceded. "All the same, I'm in no rush to make myself known to another wizard. Zancresta had a spell to summon me on command, did you know? That's how he got me into the Shop of Aether and Neither so fast. I'll bet your duar Clothahump knows it too, and if he decides your apprenticeship costs you a lifetime of favours…"

Jon-Tom nodded. He didn't believe Clothahump would really indenture him like that… although the wizard _did_ keep famuli, servants that he would promise to bestow magic favours upon, though only when and where he saw fit. Pog the bat had been the wizard's mistreated famulus for a long time, and had been all too glad to escape his master when Jon-Tom had turned him into a golden phoenix.

"I need him," Jon-Tom said, more to convince himself than Charrok. "He's my only ticket home, as he's fond of reminding me."

"Maybe, man. But it wouldn't surprise me if he draws that bowstring as far back as he can before letting you go." Charrok mused. Jon-Tom sighed. Charrok had a point. Clothahump certainly wasn't in a rush to help Jon-Tom leave his service. He decided to leave the touchy subject alone, for now. He patted his pocket, making sure the aspirin they had travelled half the world for was still safe.

" _Jon-Tom!_ " Drom's frightened whinny of warning gave Jon-Tom only a moment to react. He dropped from the seat to the wet bottom of the skiff, cradling his duar, just as something fast whistled overhead. Jon-Tom had been captured by enough tribal savages, vengeful pirates and disgruntled fairies to know an ambush when he heard one. Peeking over the gunwale, he could make out silhouettes scurrying from the tree line like cockroaches from under a rock.

"Bandits!' Charrok squawked. He spread his wings and took to the sky, his syreed still dangling from its strap around him. Jon-Tom lost sight of him almost at once in the dark. He cursed, trying to feel for his staff in the boat's stowage, the only real weapon he carried. It had a concealed blade in the tip, and had saved his life more than once when his spellsinging had not. He squinted at the shallows to see if Mudge was still with him, but the otter was already slinking off into the bulrushes.

"Drop your swords! We've got you on all sides!" a raspy voice called from the treeline. Jon-Tom couldn't quite make out what the leader of the bandits was, but as it scuttled forward, he recoiled in alarm. It had more than two, or even four legs. Could one of the Plated Folk have come this far west?

Roseroar gave a guttural snarl through her curved fangs, standing the hairs on the back of Jon-Tom's neck upright. She drew her two long serrated blades from their scabbards and bent her knees to pounce. "If this ain't a pretty welcome! C'mere, who wants to dance with a lady?"

"Give it up, kitten. Don't want to damage anything, do we?" the many-legged bandit called back in its strange dry voice. A few of the dark figures laughed. "You too, horsey. We might keep you as a pack steed if you come quietly."

"Ah. The mystery of the foul stink is solved," Drom observed drily, lowering his horned head at the leader, and stamping the ground impatiently with one hoof.

"Oi! One of 'em's lurking around in the reeds!" one of the bandits called, and at once, twenty arrows were aimed at the otter's hiding spot. Mudge let loose a foul stream of expletives, and stomped up the embankment, his paws and longbow raised above his head.

"Yeah, yeah, ya got me. Look, we ain't got nothin' worth stealin'. Take the goat-horse if you really want, but I'm warnin' you, he's a deviant bastard that'll 'ave ye in yer sleep."

"I'm going to ignore that slander, otter," Drom grumbled. "On account of you at least trying to help, in your own awful way."

Jon-Tom had the beginnings of a plan. He was hidden in the skiff, shrouded by the dark, and for once he was not the centre of attention. He felt a flush of heat, his heart pounding as he watched his friends encircled by the bandits. His fingers felt their way along the familiar two strings of the duar, thrumming out an agitated baseline. Jon-Tom's face was drawn into a scowl. It just wasn't fair. They'd survived a pirate infested ocean, crossed a desert pouring itself into an endless abyss, and discovered the mysteries of the labyrinthine Shop of Aether and Neither, built into the very heart of a volcano. He wasn't going to fail his quest on the wizard's very doorstep, not to common thieves.

The gneechees began to dance erratically, forming jagged patterns of light as the spellsinger worked the duar. He wanted to make the bandits afraid, afraid as they should be. He was the apprentice of the great wizard Clothahump, comrade of the dragon Falameezar, he had led the charge at the Jo-Troom Gate astride the winged sun horse M'nemaxa, whom rode the rim of the universe itself. His deeds were little known and forgotten fast in this world, but he would make these petty _bastards_ remember the time they crossed a spellsinger.

Mudge was readying himself to fight, the feather fletching of an arrow tickling his webbed paw as he surreptitiously reached for his quiver. He was planning to let loose on a beefy thug that was stalking towards Roseroar, when a chill ran up his spine. The bandits seemed to feel it too, and even Drom gave a nervous whinny. Mudge risked a look behind him, and nearly dropped his bow. Jon Tom seemed to tower out of the skiff, his cold, dead eyes staring through the bandit leader, his clawlike fingers pounding out the heavy bass line. Even Mudge, who had caught the occasional glimpse of real spellsinging before, slunk a little closer to the protective shadow of the tigress. 

Jon-Tom began to sing, the lyrics came in a guttural snarl, spitting out each syllable, louder and louder as his confidence grew. Jon-Tom was not by any means a sweet singer, but he didn't need it for this song. He just needed the words, and the feeling behind them.

"Psycho killer! Qu'est-ce que c'est? fa fa-fa far fa fa fa fa, far, far better, Run run, _run-run-run away!_ "

Safely perched in the trees above them, Charrok listened intently to his fellow spellsinger, noting the repeated chord patterns, and nodding his head to the beat before setting feather to string. He came in at the second chorus, his syreed filling the gaps in the chords that the duar couldn't reach, and giving Jon-Tom the full bodied accompaniment he needed. The riverbank was alive with music and magic, gneechees swarming around terrifying apparitions as the menacing refrain of _Psycho Killer_ echoed from the water's edge.

"Oh oh oh ohhh! _Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay!_ " Jon Tom near screamed, the raw anger of the warlike cry far more suited to his patchy singing style. The listeners shuddered, they could feel the cold edge of a knife against their necks, the rising panic of an unseen threat in the dark, visions of violence lit only by ghostly flashes of light. One thought crystallised in their minds; a looming hellish apparition was coming to _get them_. The gang of thieves broke ranks and disappeared into the dark forest, howling and screeching in fear. They ran as far away as the song dared them to, some past Lynchbany Towne, and others all the way to Malderpot before they collapsed of exhaustion.

Jon-Tom and Charrok weaved the song into a victorious instrumental, and brought it to a smooth finish with a rallentando, gradually slowing tempo to the final chord. Roseroar added her own victory cry for good measure, and Mudge gave a loud whoop. The gneechees fizzled out as the last sounds of the magic instruments died away, and the only noise to be heard was the lap of the river, and the panting breaths of the exhausted spellsingers. Drom trotted back to the skiff, peering with concern at Jon-Tom. Charrok glided down from his treetop perch, and alighted beside his fellow musician. The young man's hands were shaking, and he was sat hunched over the duar, staring at the lantern's weak light as if it was the only thing he could see.

"Jon-Tom?" Drom asked. When his friend gave no reply, the unicorn leaned closer, and nudged him with his nose. "It's alright. You've saved us again. I'm losing track of who owes who, now."

Jon Tom started at Drom's touch. He looked away from the lantern, his gaze matching the unicorn's gentle, lapis eyes. Something about Drom's presence seemed to calm him. He wiped his sweaty forehead, and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose.

"I know… I was just… just thinking, while I was playing. About Zancresta. I know it wasn't my fault-…" Jon-Tom started. He looked over at Charrok, the mockingbird's words coming back to him. Had Clothahump expected Zancresta's death the whole time? It was the only _real_ consequence of the quest, and the wizard did not send Jon-Tom on quests frivolously.

"And we know it wasn't your fault too," Drom said firmly. "He got on the bad side of a djinn, and it was only your spellsinging that saved us from worse. You're not a killer, Jon-Tom. That song is not about you."

Jon-Tom looked down at his hands, and rubbed his palms together. His fingertips were still throbbing from the heavy bass line. "There is one part of the song that fits though. I _hate_ people when they aren't polite."

"Cor, ye couldn't 'ave used that one a little earlier?" Mudge interrupted, strolling down to the skiff. "Like, every _other_ time we've been assaulted by miscreants an' the like?"

"Case in point?" Drom asked, glaring down at the otter. Jon-Tom blinked, then burst out laughing, Mudge looking thoroughly confused at the both of them.

"Not that I ain't grateful!" Mudge added hastily.

"Shame the plated gentlemale left so soon. Ah would've liked fresh meat tonight," Roseroar sheathed her swords, almost regretful that things hadn't turned violent. "Ah reckon we ought not dawdle here too long. That light show of yours lit us up like fireworks." 

"Right. We'll probably be safer at Clothahump's tree," Jon-Tom agreed. He jumped down from the skiff, slinging his duar's strap over his shoulder. He leaned heavily on his staff as he regained his balance. He still didn't quite have his breath back from his performance. It was then he realised his friends had not started off for the forest as he expected. In fact, they were still stood in a loose group, exchanging rather awkward looks. Jon-Tom felt just a little bit irritated. Wasn't Roseroar just saying how they should get moving? "What's the matter?"

Charrok clicked his beak, and spoke up first. "You know my feelings on wizards by now, Jon-Tom. If he's your next stop, then it's time for us to part ways. I've been thinking along the way, Polastrindu will be a good spot for a spellsinger. Big city, lots of demand for my talents. I won't be too far off, if you want to stop by for a jam session."

"Right," Jon-Tom muttered. Of course, why would they all want to squeeze into Clothahump's tiny tree dwelling with him? The journey was over. He held out his hand instinctively, even though nobody besides himself knew what it meant. When he realised the mockingbird had no hands to shake, he settled for a casual salute as Charrok took to the air, and circled overhead. "I'll see you around, Charrok!"

"Keep an ear out for me!" the mockingbird called back. They watched Charrok disappear over the treetops, then circle back over them to follow the Tailaroam upstream, muttering, " _Wrong way, genius._ "

"Ah'm heading east too, spellsinger," Roseroar admitted next. "Ah can't see much point in sittin' in a tree, having high tea with his wizardship. Ah'm sure there's plenty of action out in Zaryt's Teeth for a warrior."

Roseroar paused for a moment, and when she spoke next, it seemed she was picking every word as delicately as she would a poisonous flower. "If… if you came along, Ah'd be mighty pleased to have you fight by my side. You could show me the Jo-Troom Pass, where you beat back them Plated Folk. Ah heard it was one fight Ah'd regret missing."

Jon-Tom opened his mouth, then closed it again. He saw in his mind's eye an image of himself, playing a finger-scorching duar solo that wailed and echoed off the steep white peaks of Zaryt's Teeth, the snow-striped tigress dancing and duelling around him as they fought an onrushing horde of plated warriors. He smiled, in spite of the answer he knew he would have to give.

"I would be honoured, Roseroar, but… I can't give up on finding a way home," Jon-Tom replied, diplomatically avoiding mention of Talea. He still held some hope in his heart that he would meet her again. That, and settling down with a five-hundred pound feline had never been his idea of the classic domestic life.

"Make a new home," Roseroar countered quickly, her tail swishing in agitation. Jon-Tom stifled the urge to gulp; he didn't think the tigress would hurt him, but he wouldn't put it past her to carry him over her shoulder all the way to the Scuttletau.

"Come now, lady Roseroar," Drom chided meekly, "we won't disappear from each other's lives if we don't all marry each other tonight. Let him study with his wizard a while."

Roseroar's deep yellow eyes gazed into Jon-Tom's. She was making a silent promise to him, that she wasn't going to give up that easily, and one day she would be back. He should have known that, given the song he had used to summon her in the first place. Finally, she broke eye contact, and reached a heavy hand to ruffle the unicorn's long ears.

"And what about yourself, suh?" Roseroar asked, as Drom leaned his head contently into her palm. "You saved our lives on more'n one account. You mean t'keep an eye on our spellsinger?"

"Oh, me? No, I've come this far to see you lot safely, and you won't lack for protection under a wizard's roof," Drom said, winking at Jon-Tom, "I should like to travel, and perhaps find more equine companionship. Nothing against you, Mudge."

The otter scoffed. "Yeah yeah, love ya too, goat-horse."

Drom nickered in amusement. "You wouldn't mind if I came with you, lady Roseroar? There's safety in numbers."

"And in giant heavily armed predators," Mudge added helpfully, ducking nimbly out of the tigress' grabbing-range.

"Ah'd be glad of it, suh. Still owe you fo' all you did," Roseroar smiled. She looked back at Jon-Tom, and nodded politely. "Ah'm glad you pulled me into this journey, Jon-Tom. Think of me, especially if you're doing something darn foolish and dangerous again. You know I'd be up fo' it."

"I can honestly say that I will," Jon-Tom said. Roseroar kneeled, and pulled him into a surprisingly gentle hug, one arm around his shoulder. When she stood back up, she didn't look at him again. He last saw her loping down the beach on all fours, following the Tailaroam eastward after Charrok. Drom stepped forward next, and put his neck over Jon-Tom's shoulder fondly.

"No long goodbyes from me, dear Jon-Tom. Keep the otter out of trouble," Drom said. Jon-Tom chuckled, and gave the unicorn a pat on his neck. Drom took a step back, and lowered his head to nuzzle the reluctant otter.

"Go on, mate," Mudge muttered gruffly, waving him off. Drom raised his head, and reared back on his hind legs, showing off his golden mane with a toss of his head, before breaking into a gallop down the riverbank after Roseroar. Mudge watched the unicorn until he too had gone. Then, he began to walk off, seeming to ignore his friend altogether. Jon-Tom raised an eyebrow.

"What, not even a goodbye?"

Mudge turned his head and gave Jon Tom a mischievous grin. "Ain't got time mate, I'd rather get on with me own business. You dragged me along on your bloody 'arebrained venture, and I've nought to show for it but new bruises. So 'ows this for goodbye? Farewell, you bloody bald ape, may we stay outta each other's lives for many 'appy years to come. Ta!"

Jon-Tom rolled his eyes. "Mudge, you live in _Lynchbany_. I'll probably see you next week while I'm grocery shopping."

His words were lost on the otter, whom had already disappeared into the dark of the woods. Now alone, Jon-Tom picked up the lantern, checked he still had the bottle of aspirin that had caused them more headaches than it could possibly cure, and set off for the wizard's tree.


End file.
